


Just Another Job

by RadScavver



Series: The Cadriff Chronicles [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Meeting the Unit, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadScavver/pseuds/RadScavver
Summary: The General couldn't free every settlement on her own, so she delegates the task to her most trusted unit.





	Just Another Job

Rads grumbles to herself, scowl fierce beneath the brim of her hat. The awful humid damp of bogs is already bad enough, but during summer rain? Disgusting. All her clothes get clingy, sticky without being so, and the fabrics become irritatingly rough on more sensitive areas. As it is, she yanks her militia hat down to better cover her face against the pelting droplets.

“We’re not far now!” The guide has to yell to be heard over the din and thunder. “We’re not too far from Suffolk Charter.”

She squints through the darkness, eyes catching the flash of lightning on a squat building off to their right.

The General had sent out a warning about the school a month or so back. Something about not eating pink stuff. Rads had nearly laughed herself sick when her entire unit had turned and stared at her after the announcement had come across Minutemen Radio. Her newly dyed bright pink hair hadn’t helped at the time.

Regardless, they’re not here to scope out the surrounding buildings. They’re here to clean out a new site for a settlement.

She barks out, eyes scanning the area for threats, “When we get close, we’ll pull ahead. I’m not going to be responsible for any civies dying should something go wrong.”

The guide’s face screws in a sour frown, one of his hands going white-knuckled around his rusty modded tire iron. It’s enormous flat blade doesn’t even glint in the occasional flash, too thick with build-up to actually be more than a bludgeon at this point. She can’t help the mocking twist of her lips. Behind them, snickers float up from her unit. The bunch of assholes know exactly what she’s thinking. She loves them for it.

With the corners of her mouth curl up, she cranks her musket twice more, leaving her clip half empty. She generally tries not to kill all the creatures they come across, especially if she can pacify them instead, but it never hurts to be prepared.

They trudge on for a few more minutes before the guide stops. Lightning lances across the roiling sky, thunder shaking the very earth in its fury, and she can just make out the vibrant yellow of construction vehicles between the trees ahead. The guide points.

“Be careful,” he warns, beady eyes darting around. It makes him look like a startled molerat. She doesn’t think she’s ever hated the comparison more than now. “Couple of folks spotted a hunter mixed in with the usual ‘lurks.”

“We’ll be fine,” one of her unit laughs.

“Yeah,” another chimes in, “the lieutenant can charm the horns off a deathclaw!”

Face puckering like he’s eaten a rotten tato, the guide snaps, “Well, then I guess mirelurks won’t be an issue.”

Rads snorts, “Of course not, I have eleven at home.”

They push past the gawking guide, eager to wrap up this miserable call to action. She quickly takes point, leaving the others to watch and cover her.  
The first ‘lurk doesn’t even try to resist. Rads pacifies it with little more than a gentle croon. With the soft-shelled critter scuttling off unharmed, they gradually creep forward. Further and further, fighting to keep low and quiet even as the mud sucks at their boots, they keep a steady enough pace. They must leave behind a dozen or so peacefully ambling ‘lurks behind them.

Her throats going hoarse, an ache riding the back of her palette that makes it painful to breathe through her nose. Her second-in-command is helping as much as possible, but they hadn’t anticipated _this_ many to be present. Chugging purified water does nothing to help ease the throb of her throat. She’s already gone through a bottle and a half.

“Cardiff, we’ve still got at least a two minute stretch,” one troop murmurs off to her left.

She can barely hear who it is, too much storm sound muffling the voice before it can reach her. Maybe it’s Payton? Or Riley?

Her second speaks up, voice like gravel, close to her right, “We haven’t even seen the hunter yet.”

Rads swallows. Her throat clicks loud, a rough sizzle of hurt that goes deep into her chest, and she cranks her musket three times. The full clip glows strongly enough to cast her in a cardinal glaze. Brilliant red blends into the darkness, casting anything close enough into an eerie atmosphere. It highlights the terseness of her expression. Wordlessly, the other three crank to max. They advance.

Barely ten steps forward and the ground explodes up. Hissing and chittering, it’s not one hunter but a pair that scramble toward them. She tries for peace, but her attempt is cut short when she has to jerk away from a powerful snapping claw. The weak croon crumbles on her tongue, sending a painful twinge along her jaw and down the side of her neck. Something thick and warmth clogs in corners of her mouth. Rads spits and her second fires. The beam is near blinding, but the quad-charged bolt hits true, punching a scorched hole into thick chitin. Copper sticks to the back of her teeth. The other hunter glows an ugly chartreuse. There’s an aggravated screech that kicks up over the scream of the wind.

“Riley! Duck!”

She drops down to one knee out of instinct, the troop to her left going down as well. Payton, rear guard this time around, launches a molotov ahead. A shatter and now the glowing monster is enraged and aflame. It’s sickly light is almost cartoonish, overpowered now by the orange of flame and another too vibrant red beam. Rads curses and levels her musket. Full power, the shot knocks harshly against her shoulder but it lands perfectly between bulbous eyes. It falls to dust, fading like a photo curls and dies. She tries to find her unit. Tries to find the hunter that blends in to the wet, muddy hellscape. Acidic phlegm arcs through the air, murky green in the faint moonlight that makes it through the surging clouds. It splashes against a rotting tree, and there’s her second. Pinned behind the scraggly trunk. Clutching at an arm that hangs too heavy.

Rads croaks, forcing her voice louder than it wants to go, tasting more hot metal on drip down her throat, “Sanders! Retreat!”

Riley takes up covering fire as Rads recranks. Taking her chance, Sanders darts away from her precarious position, booking toward the rest of them. Her gait is awkward, too tilted for her to fight the grip of the marsh. The hunter is annoyingly agile. Rads worries, for just a second, that she’s going to lose her second. The lieutenant fires, only three cranks, but it stuns the lobster long enough for Sanders to get out of range.

“Payton, got anymore molotovs?” Riley calls, ducking away from another sputum projectile.

“On it!”

Another crash. The fireball engulfs the hunter. It screeches, thrashes, sends up a mess of mud and water, yet still it falls to the heat. They watch the blackened carcass smoke for a second.

“God damn _crabs_!” Riley snarls. “I’ve only got four cells left!”

She scans the patch of marsh they’re in. Smoldering holes and steaming mud show more misfires than usual for her team. The damn things had been incredibly fast in spite of the crappy conditions.

Payton sighs, announcing grimly, “I’ve got another molotov, but I’m down to about ten cells.”

“Alright,” Rads grunts, pushing herself up. It feels like she’s gargling rusty nails. She absently pulls out bottle of dirty water. The irradiated water soothes the burn somewhat, her odd physiology sucking up the radiation to mend what it can. “Even yourselves out, try and keep hold of that bottle for now. Sanders, status?”

The other woman hisses through the sting of a stimpack, “Not good, lieutenant. I’ve got enough for maybe two full charges. I didn’t get the chance to make ‘nades for this run.”

“Fuck. I’ve got eight cells and a cryo. It’s not much but if we can finagle it, we might be able to clear this place out. Anyone else need a stim?”

Payton’s munching on some iguana bits, offering a quick thumbs-up. Riley looks alright, just pissed off. Hunched over, Sanders is breathing against the rush of meds in her system. Rads can feel the tight numbness on her upper arm from where some spit had caught her, but it doesn’t seem enough for her to waste a stim. The violent pounding under her jaw might warrant one if nothing else, if only so she can try and pacify more ‘lurks, but not just for a breather from the pain. Not if her unit might need it more than she will.

They advance again, definitely warier than they’d started. Even the slightest creak of trees has musket muzzles snapping up. The rain’s lightening with each passing second, the world grayed out and wet but no longer the furious maelstrom of before. Sighing in relief, Riley pulls ahead as construction equipment and the broken frame of a house looms through the mist left behind. He barks out a laugh, planting one foot victoriously on a moss-slick two-by-four.

The echoing screech that answers him freezes them all in place.

“Hey,” Payton squeaks, “lieutenant?”

Feeling dizzy as she stares up at the looming silhouette, Rads croaks, “Yeah?”

“You ever talk down a queen?”

“Can’t...uh, can’t say I have.”

“Oh...shit.”

There’s an aggressive whirring sound as Sanders cranks her musket to max. Rads laughs weakly, fumbling to jam a stim into her thigh. Payton is mumbling some kind of prayer; Riley’s swearing so hard his face is going red. With a slow inhale, Rads pulls out her cryo.

A soft ping as the ring tugs free triggers chaos.

 

* * *

 

 

The General jerks at her desk as a cry goes up. She bursts from her office to find minutemen rushing through the stone halls in a frenzy. With a sharp whistle, she startles a few into a dead stop.

“What the hell is going on?” she snarls, once again thankful for the modulator that makes her so much more intimidating.

One of them-a scruffy wisp of a thing with oil on his face and eyes big as a cartoon fawn-yelps, “G-General, there’s a mirelurk queen heading this way!”

“There’s an army of ‘lurks with her,” another whimpers, fingers clutching his hat so tightly she can hear the stitches popping even through the helmet.

She races for the upper ring. There shouldn’t be any problems with wildlife since Rads’ had...there’s no way. As she reaches the overlook post above the gate door, she yanks a scoped musket from a trembling guard. She peers through the scope.

With a sigh, she snickers, “Only you, Cadriff.”

Marching proudly at the front, bright pink hair wild in the breeze, Rads leads her unit. Behind them is a damn battalion of mirelurks, from soft-shelled to razorclaws and hunters of all sorts, and the gigantic form of a queen trailing after. The humans are all battered, clothes in shambles, but their grins are bright enough to rival the sun.


End file.
